From Such Great Heights
by Immi
Summary: Fareeha and Genji make friends through the power of bad puns and worse family dynamics. One might help more than the other.
1. From Such Great Heights

**AN:** Getting my feet wet. Title from the song of close to the same name by The Postal Service. Content pretty heavily influenced by the dialogue between Pharah and Ana; specifically the sequence Pharah kicks off.

* * *

There were about fifty good hiding spots in Watchpoint: Gibraltar that didn't require an active base. Fareeha no longer fit in a good dozen of them.

As fully established adult who had every right to be here, that no longer mattered. In theory.

As someone raised by Ana Amari, Fareeha was grateful to know the facility well enough to enjoy her morning tea on top of the perfected solitude of latticed maintenance catwalks.

Truthfully, so out in the open, it could only be called a hiding spot if someone went out searching for her. Since no one would, it was easy to switch focus and pretend that she'd chosen it for the aesthetic perks.

It was quiet. It gave her a better view of the overhanging rock formations than she'd ever been allowed during her childhood. The distant rays of the rising sun were only a head tilt away.

She'd seen all of it before. Before the recall, she'd almost stopped hoping to see it again.

Out of all the places her military brat upbringing had swept her, this was The One. This was where she knew she belonged. This had to be where she was meant to go.

When she dreamed of the day Overwatch sent her an invitation, she saw the glittering water and same towering rocks lingering above. She could hear the roar of carrier engines and constant pops coming from the practice range.

This was where they had all been at their happiest.

She remembered flying across the base on her mother's shoulders, Jack's complaints about it being no place for children following them over the intercom while Ana shouted back that it couldn't be any worse than putting one in charge. Giggling laughter filled the base, Gabriel taking a break for the first time in a week to watch them. One rare time, Reinhardt had scooped Fareeha up midway and lifted her high enough to brush the ceiling.

It was never for very long, but the moments spent in this place were shining beacons of when everything was right in the world, and justice and camaraderie reigned. They were what she aspired to honor.

None of her visions for the future had involved waking up early to brood over the thousandth time her mother questioned her career path. Before their first mission together, even.

She wasn't sure why. That had always been the one true constant of her life.

Fareeha sipped quietly at her tea, breathing in the brisk morning air and staring down at the waking base below. So far, only Brigitte and Torbjörn were visible, chattering all the way to his workshop.

She found it harder now to react harshly to her mother's opinion. Her mother was alive, for one thing. She hadn't been for too many years, and there was little Fareeha couldn't forgive in light of that. Additionally, illegally or not, she was now part of Overwatch. She was standing in the place of her literal dreams, working with living legends and several personal idols, her mother included.

That didn't make parental disapproval any easier to bear. The mortified teenager in her was still groaning over the number of ears that had caught Ana's weary comment.

It was a small blessing that Tariq and Saleh had assignments elsewhere. They'd trusted her enough to follow her here, giving up their jobs and most of their gear; they didn't need to hear their captain's mother sighing at her life choices during mission prep.

Fareeha perched her elbows against the railing, looking down below. Besides the expanse of neglected steel, there was nothing but open air, and in a perfect world, she and her squadmates would know what it was like to soar it. Years ago, when Overwatch was in its prime, Helix might have considered loaning out their state-of-the-art equipment to one of their security chiefs who had earned the organization's favor. The current climate was somewhat less flexible.

For now, she was grounded. They all were. The bordered catwalks overseeing the base came as close to free sky as she could get on her own. If she closed her eyes, letting the breeze take her and listening to the distant crash of waves–it didn't even come close.

What did come to her was the light pitter-patter that several successful operations had taught her to recognize.

She opened her eyes and looked to the top of the sheltered stairwell that had brought her here, ready when Genji made his final flip to stand a meter above her head.

He noticed her instantly-of course-but the childish part of her still relished in the slight widening of his eyes. No one was ever prepared when he dropped out of nowhere. Going by the bounce in his step following most instances, he liked it that why. She tipped her mug to him.

He quietly reached up and slid his visor back into place. "Captain Amari. I was unaware you were up here."

Fareeha smiled ruefully. "Watching the sunrise."

"Of course." He bowed his head to her. "I shall leave you to it. Privacy is a luxury that is seldom supported here."

Before he could reverse his climb, Fareeha spoke up. "We're in the wrong line of work for luxury. You're welcome to stay."

Genji didn't provide an immediate response. He stood balanced on the roof, shots of dawn bouncing off of him, looking down at her. It was impossible to tell if he was considering the suggestion, or searching for a polite way to say that he did not scale the tallest portion of a largely abandoned facility for companionship.

Fareeha was perfectly willing to accept either. Out of their new colleagues, Genji was one of the few she'd never met before. He had found his way to Overwatch during her time in the army, and while friendly, seemed more at ease keeping his distance. With everyone. Most of what she knew of him as a person came from an extremely awkward field encounter they'd shared with his brother. That remained the only positive part of the incident.

They had worked together peaceably so far, but professional courtesy guided most dialogue exchanges. She was open to opportunities to change that.

Less generously, Genji was also one of the few people within hearing range of her latest discussion with her mother, and perhaps the only one with the emotional cognizance to guess at why she was really up here. They'd arrived back at the base far past reasonable hours. She wasn't sure of how much rest he required, but it was obvious that she had abandoned any hope of making up for the late night.

Above her, he finally moved, sliding smoothly into a sitting position that shared her angle of the horizon. "Thank you," he said. To her surprise, he spoke on. "My last visit to this place held little thought of admiring its scenery."

Fareeha took another sip of her tea and didn't ask. "The last time I was here," she admitted, "everyone was taller than me." She ran her thumb over the rim of the mug. "It's nice that some problems can be outgrown."

Genji observed her for a long moment. There was a tangible pause.

"So it is."

Silence stepped easily between them. Down below, Reinhardt was lumbering his way across the path Brigitte and Torbjörn had taken. Soon, the ringing clang of steel on steel would probably scare away the seagulls roosted in the eaves. They still had the option of flying off.

An image of the look on Torbjörn's face if Fareeha asked him to recreate something as modern as her Raptora suit flashed to mind, and she smiled into her mug.

It wilted when another agent wandered out to enjoy the morning air.

"Others linger."

Fareeha glanced up, where she had the feeling Genji was making an effort not to look at her. She was more than used to the accompanying body language. Her mother regularly inspired it in half the people they knew.

"It's better than it was," she said, in lieu of a real defense.

He turned his head to her briefly. "Yet not so improved that she is willing to trust you on your own path."

The accuracy stung. Pressing against the railing more tightly, Fareeha stayed quiet for a moment, watching her mother dangling her feet over the edge of her own safety rails. Peace was still a scarcity for her. Coming back had changed so much, but never that.

Fareeha loved her life. She wouldn't sort through and pick and choose what aspects she could do without; they were all interconnected, bringing her to a place where she could do some good in the world. She had been allowed, through some miracle, to live out her dream.

Her mother had not.

It was hard sometimes, not to feel responsible for that. All of the self-righteous anger that had fueled their arguments during her teenage years was mostly gone, and now, when the topic did come up, all Fareeha could see was the wary exhaustion in her mother's eye. She hated contributing to it.

"I'm one of her failures," she said softly, not meaning to. "My mother is one of the greatest heroes the world has ever known, and all she has ever wanted is for me to be safe." She grimaced. "Life's greatest luxury. This… all of this is hard for her."

Breeze caught her hair, bringing the salty taste of the sea with it.

"You must love her very dearly," Genji said, "to keep that sympathy in mind over resentment."

Fareeha caught the loaded undertone. A lifetime of making assignments work around the clash of personal feelings had left her with several practical social skills. Not a deep inclination to use them, but it was still firmly within her skill set.

Forgoing further attempts at mock boundaries, she clambered up on the railing, handing off her mug without worrying to ask before vaulting herself up on the roof. The view wasn't any different, but it offered a dizzying sense of freedom that the sheltered catwalk couldn't compare to.

Genji handed her back her tea, continuing. "I admire that quality in you. It was one of the hardest lessons I ever learned." He paused. "I still struggle with it."

Only very practiced control stopped Fareeha from eyeing Genji's body pointedly. She had witnessed his patience with his brother firsthand. Respectfully, she kept the exact memories of the exchange from her mind, but she knew enough of the involved history that not even one of her rockets could have blasted away her skepticism. Fratricide was not the sort of thing most people would know how to excuse. Under any circumstances. She wasn't sure anyone who knew the full story would be surprised that Genji had spent years living with monks.

He shifted under the scrutiny. His second visible sign of discomfort this morning. "My brother's actions are easier to forgive than his stubbornness," he said.

Fareeha blinked. She swirled the dregs of her tea, fighting off the twitch of a grin threatening her lips.

"May I speak candidly?"

"Of course."

She dropped down from her lofty perch to a crouch, meeting the glow of Genji's visor solidly. "If my mother and I were siblings," Fareeha said, "we would have murdered each other several times over by now."

It was as far from professionally courteous as she could have possibly gone, the dead seriousness in her eyes hardly making up for it. The ensuing staring contest wasn't much better, but it was at least mutual.

There were ways to relate to your unit respectfully. This was not one of the recommended methods.

The training that elaborated on why stalled at a passing suggestion, and the soft huff of a robotic chuckle reached her ears.

"Perhaps," Genji said, a warmth to his voice that she didn't often hear, "it is a sniper proclivity."

"Perhaps," Fareeha agreed, grinning. "That must be why they need us."

She would have to hammer down his emotional cues more thoroughly in the future, but in the moment, she was certain that ebbing tension in his shoulders counted as a win.

Regardless, she thought, remembering the warmth and joy in secure arms holding her up to the sky, it was certainly the truth.

Flashing him another smile, she settled back on her haunches, breathing out her own stress from the previous evening and taking in the sights of one of her favorite homes.

The sun was shining. The sky was clear. Even her tea being nearly gone was barely a blip on her radar.

There were still those gulls, though.

They fluttered through the air, scattering gracelessly at the crashes echoing from the workshop.

She had made a much better bird. She'd always known to fly towards those noises.

"I believe your earlier assessment was flawed, Captain Amari," Genji said suddenly. "We must be living at the height of luxury to enjoy watching a sunrise with a friend."

Fifty meters beneath them, Ana was sipping tea, cajoling a grumpy Jack out into the morning glare.

Fareeha reached out her mug and clinked it against Genji's fist.


	2. Float On

**AN:** This wasn't supposed to be a series. Now it is. Due to this not being AO3, that will be represented by more chapters. Probably infrequently. Chapter title's the Modest Mouse song. ...And hooray for blatant Star Wars references.

* * *

Stalking through hallways in the dead of night was not an unusual activity for Genji. In both his lifetimes, there had always been a use for befriending the shadows. The work of a ninja did not invite brightness simply because he happened to glow now. It was one of the many constants that his master had taught him to dwell upon. The man he was had been remade, but the simple pleasures they shared were not as lost as they seemed.

Such as the freedom of walking through the catacombs of Gibraltar without a host of frightened agents staring at him—or actively not. He was glad for the convenience, and continued to be glad as he hurried into the abandoned conference room he was seeking and gently closed the door behind him.

The room shared in the emptiness that shrouded the rest of the base. He was alone.

He located the spot on the floor with the best vantage points, and eased into his meditation stance. A quiet mind would do him good for this.

He slid back the mobile cover of his forearm and twirled the screwdriver he had acquired with enough artistry that it could almost look familiar in his hand.

So much would be simpler if that were only the case.

As a boy, he had never given his equipment much thought. His training had captivated him only as long as the lessons lasted, and most of his skills had been honed through sneaking out of his bedroom to visit the arcade ("The _eyesore_ ," their father repeatedly called it). Long talks of honor and pride and the importance of their gifts could stay with Hanzo. His shuriken and blades would always catch his eye, but as for their sheathes, his concern was limited. That was what servants were for.

That mindset could not stay once he found himself embroiled in the training's true purpose. His tools were his life, and sloppy maintenance could mean his head.

Those talks were practical enough, and they stuck.

His solution to his shuriken holder jamming was still, more often than not, to pester their armory into giving him a new one. They had resources; no one else having the sense to take advantage of them wasn't any problem of his.

When that left him hiding in an abandoned conference room with a screwdriver and a prayer because his casual relationship with material goods that truly mattered had put a hard limit on his ability to repair his own arm—

That, as with many of the things he had once dismissed, was a problem of his.

He had learned his new body well in the past ten years, keeping up with regular maintenance checks even in isolation. A refusal to allow anyone else to see him at his most vulnerable had taught him many things that Hanzo's lecturing tone could not. He was now one with his equipment. He would replace what he could when necessary, but he would have to know how to care for his self.

In most cases, he would admit to rousing success.

The mechanism responsible for reloading his shuriken continued to defy him.

A simple enough thing, built on technology far more outdated than the rest of him, it was a near copy of what he had used in his youth, with the only difference being that it was part of him. His armory raiding strategies were now rendered largely useless unless he had a pressing desire to approach his new fellows and request their aid.

He did not.

He was fully capable of understanding his own arm, and with such a simple thing, identifying the problem came easily. Despite spending most of its time protected by his exoskeleton, dirt and other inconvenient particles did make their way in, and if they were sizable enough, a jam was inevitable.

A simple problem with a simple fix. Remove the blockage, and clean out any debris that remained. Preferably with the shuriken taken out first. He had, several times, found the end of his task by simply willing that function of his arm to exert enough force to break through the obstruction.

When that failed, the simple fix became slightly more extensive. His hands, perfectly versed in any number of dexterous challenges, had fingers of a size that refused to ease between the delicate gap of the reloading mechanism with any grace. Having more than one to work with was his master's kind suggestion.

Maybe, in a different place, at a different time, that would be an option that didn't make his heart recoil. Today, he was where his superiors might have sat when they'd seen his rage for a weapon.

Zenyatta's influence had banished the impulse to hate them for that, but the sensitivity caught fast.

Genji twisted the screwdriver carefully around inside his arm, searching for the spot of complete neural numbness that would always lead him to the problem. All it should take was nudging the clump of sand—that was most likely, given his recent wandering—out, or into smaller pieces, and—

And nothing, evidently.

The screech of metal jarred his senses, and his automatic retreat had no effect on the screwdriver that was now standing erect in his forearm.

One of Genji's other lessons from the past ten years was that he was a very poor mechanic.

An earlier one, ingrained in any bone that presumed to make up his vessel, said that noises like that nearly always brought an otherwise successful mission to a brutal end, and his body obediently tensed, waiting for the ensuing catastrophe.

But no one was lurking in the dark underbelly of the new Overwatch to hear his mechanical failures.

Genji took a calming breath, more for the mental benefits than any need, and slipped his eyes closed. His free hand fell into position over his chest, and murmurs of his master's instruction echoed in his mind as he released his stress.

There was still much to be found in this place. Serenity did not trap him easily. It was only a healthy amount of stubbornness that helped the reverse along for brief instants.

He breathed steadily, feeling the beat of his original heart, and the soft sting of his remaining skin; and the easy, resolute power that wound through all that was new, and still worked to keep him alive.

Peace returned. The spot of numbness in his arm faded to an irrelevant background.

He would have stayed in that still, contented world as long as it had him if his senses didn't catch the end of his isolation stepping down the hallway.

Genji blinked himself back. Quickly as he could, he squashed whatever surprise had worked its way into his body language. He was coming to know those footsteps very well; the silence was attracted to them, much in the same way it shadowed Hanzo. The quiet embraced them both so easily. What they never seemed to realize was how clearly that made them stand out next to it.

Especially to Genji's hearing.

He had no reason to believe the younger Captain Amari was aware of his running tally of times they had successfully snuck up on each other. Nonetheless, he thought to himself—back straight, head cocked expectantly, and eyes on the opening door—he was sure that it bothered her that he was winning.

He supposed he had Hanzo to thank for keeping the broad grin on his soul hidden. When Captain Amari walked through the door, thoroughly lost in whatever she was reading on her phone, he had a full second of free observation before her head snapped up and she made eye contact.

The shock only lasted a fraction of that, but he saw it.

Point Genji.

Then he caught the wobble of the screwdriver protruding from his arm, and Captain Amari's sauntering gaze over to it, and reconsidered the scoring distribution.

Captain Amari, without a twitch betraying the delight that she was stealing out from under him, took one look at him and his partially dismantled arm, pocketed her phone, and said, with all the security that came from the world crafting her for moments like these, "Need a hand?"

He had his suspicions that this woman could deny the union of awkwardness and silence through sheer force of rhetorical enjoyment.

He took advantage of that to stray from an immediate answer. Much like the sunrise last month, when his interruption had transformed it into a shared experience, and their multiple encounters since then, her offer was presented in a way that felt removed from the social pressures that had defined too much of his previous life at Overwatch. He lingered on the tattoo under her eye. This was an honest choice, and his to make.

Never mind that she was throwing it to him after walking in on him in one of the most secluded areas of the base. Some would consider the choice made from that alone.

And it had resulted in him sitting, alone, in a dark, abandoned conference room, with a screwdriver sticking out of his arm.

A standard beginning for his exploits in personal growth, Master would say.

Captain Amari, through long practice or quirk of personality, said nothing, and it was a relief.

"Yes," he arrived at. "But I can make do with yours."

The captain lit up. Not in her face—too much time letting orders rule your life stole that away—but in the lightness in her shoulders, and in the steps she took before joining him on the floor. Helping made her soul sing, and brought his back to an even pitch.

"Jammed?" she asked.

"Very."

She took a closer look, her breath misting his hand. He could see her eyes darting about with surprising precision, the lack of light hardly any obstacle at all. "I don't like sand," she murmured. "It's coarse and rough and irritating, and it gets everywhere."

A flash to a history Genji had never wanted came to mind vividly, and curiosity propelled him forward.

"You've seen those movies?"

"All fourteen," Captain Amari said promptly. She examined the stuck screwdriver for a moment before grabbing hold. "You?"

There were ways, Genji had learned, to speak of his experiences without making his listener so appalled that they chose to forego all acquaintanceship. With Captain Amari, he was unsure if he chose not to use them because they were exhausting, or if he trusted the burgeoning kinship they were finding together.

"I reached the episode where the brothers-in-arms attempted to murder one another, and one was left for dead to become a cybernetic monstrosity." He paused. "I chose to stop watching."

That remained the civilized way of terming how his hospital-issued remote had found itself making impact with the projector set at the foot of his bed.

It had been the day before he would be medically cleared to respond to Overwatch's interrogations. In truthful terms, the day before he officially chose to burn his family's empire to the ground for what they had taken from him. The hospital's entertainment system had not helped his feelings on the matter. Neither had the multitude of unkind words he shouted at Angela when she rushed into the ward to investigate the crash.

He was no longer that man. He would never stop being grateful for that gift.

"Out for movie night then," Fareeha said, bringing him back.

"That would be preferred."

He waited for a follow-up, but she just nodded, taking the screwdriver and gently easing it out to the slow sound of grating metal. Genji stayed focused on keeping as much of the arm relaxed as he could while she worked.

It was surprisingly easy.

Not at all what he had been bracing himself for when he chose to come down here.

Some healing, his master once told him, was like that. The harm of trusting a pattern to repeat could become a self-fulfilling prophecy, and once removed, so too would be the damage. It only took the courage to try a new path.

Genji had been fortunate. Most of the courage that saved him was owed to others.

He watched the casual tension in his friend's arms as she assisted with his, the traces of scar tissue over her steady fingers reflecting his light. He had seen similar marks covering Torbjörn's hand years ago. As well as last week. The rougher calluses of mechanical craftsmanship.

"I avoided asking for help," he said. Out loud, for once. "In many things, but with this in particular. I didn't wish to remind anyone that some things are still a transition."

Captain Amari deftly prodded the screwdriver back in, managing to hit the exact spot his awkward attempts had aimed for. He heard something loosen before he felt it. Small grains of sand rolled down the insides of his arm, and she reached in and flicked several of them to the floor.

"My mother," she said, in the tone of someone who would be beginning stories this way until the day she died, "walked into a wall yesterday. She then pretended it was intentional." She hesitated, catching his eye. The glimmer of a smile in her voice left. "Before I came in here, I tried to call my former captain about using some of our old Helix gear." She dusted more sand out of Genji's arm. "He's dead."

She manipulated the screwdriver with another twist before the statement could linger, and sensation came back to Genji's arm as a large clump popped free and skittered across the degraded carpet. They were making a mess. Judging by the dust content of the room, it wasn't one that would be attended to quickly without their further involvement.

Genji pulled back his freed arm and pumped the reload mechanism through its paces several times under his friend's careful eye. It worked smoothly. He would make sure to be especially careful cleaning it when he returned to his quarters.

"I am repaired," he said. "Thank you."

"Any time." Captain Amari stood up, making to leave him alone again.

A respectful sentiment.

"…Did it work?"

She turned back, eyebrow cocked in question.

"Your mother's tactic," he clarified, rising to his feet.

Captain Amari scoffed, grinning at him. "Have you met my mother?"

"Of course it worked," they said together.


	3. Finer Than Frog Hair

Fareeha had accumulated a fair share of experience with budget complications over the years. The Egyptian Armed Forces asked for her opinion on their distribution of funds less often than they listened to it. Helix, juggernaut of experimental military tech, last line of defense against everything that the world used to have Overwatch for, had happily ignored her repeated reports on the flaws in the security plan for Anubis until the day she and her squad were firing off rockets in the heart of the facility.

Hearing that the new Overwatch had a funding problem wasn't a shock. She'd come into this operation knowing full well what she was getting. This was a mission built on heart, not money. They were doing an international job they legally weren't allowed to do, using a base they weren't supposed to be occupying, and equipment they weren't supposed to have. Problems were to be expected.

Another way to put it, which she preferred, was that problems were why Overwatch existed. They were in the business of solutions. Whether it was interrupting a terrorist attack or figuring out how their agents were going to feed themselves, they would supply an answer.

And Fareeha happened to like the answer to this problem. Very much.

Nine times out of ten.

At the present moment, closed off from the rest of the world in a tiny motel room with unforgiving desert heat seeping in through the shaded windows, Saleh was appropriately sweating bullets, Tariq was scrambling to bandage his leg before the floor was irredeemably covered in blood, and Fareeha had lost all feeling in her hand from Saleh's grip on it.

"A cowboy," Saleh hissed, "shot me in the leg."

Bounty hunting for fun and profit. With the fun part officially over, and the profit part looking more unlikely by the minute.

"You're in shock, Saleh."

The soothing tone Tariq had picked up from one of their first-aid seminars didn't have the desired effect on their injured squadmate. He grit his teeth, making eye contact with Fareeha so fiercely that some of the pressure was taken off her hand.

"He thought I was the mark," he said, biting out his words. "Shot me in the leg before he saw my face. Apologized. Told me to mind myself after. Left to track the target." He blinked back a few pained tears. "I've seen him before."

Fareeha didn't bother with soothing. "Do you know where?"

"Wanted list. I think."

Leaving them with two outlaws to track down in the same city. If they didn't have to scrub. Someone had probably seen Tariq carrying Saleh back to the motel, and it would be a while before he was back on his feet. Two on two with an unestablished wild card could turn bad fast.

Fareeha dug out the holo-app they'd picked up with their last bounty and held it above Saleh's face anyway, setting the feed to an automatic scroll. Every single person with a bounty out on them was logged in it, though for the time being it was set only to browse North America's selection. It shouldn't have cost as much as it did, but bounty hunting had gotten competitive enough in recent years that half the work came from finding someone to hunt down in the first place. Something to do with global security being docked a few major programs.

When it wasn't getting her men shot, Fareeha found it exhilarating. Chasing down shadows into the unknown and throwing them back to the righteous light suited her. The added tension of her livelihood and their entire operation being dependent on success only completed the feeling. Her mother would have a hypocritical fit.

"There," Saleh said. "Him. Cowboy."

The scrolling stopped.

Nostalgia knocked.

Fareeha took a long look at the face sporting the sixty-million dollar bounty. Longer than she needed to. Longer than she should have, with the stack of problems starting to topple over on her squad.

Jesse McCree, in all his brazen cowboy glory, looked back, sporting the exact same hat he used to squash over her eyes when they sat next to each other in the mess hall. Or when he caught her during hide-and-seek.

To the side of the image, the words, "Dead or Alive," pulsed benignly in red.

"Tariq," she heard herself say, "you have Saleh's leg handled?"

"Yes, Captain."

She squeezed Saleh's hand and extracted herself. She didn't think he noticed. He would be okay with Tariq. They did have medpacks, even if they weren't supposed to use them outside of life-threatening injuries. He'd be fine. Not fine enough for what was coming next, but that was her job to work around, not his.

Shutting the door carefully, she dunked her head in the sink of their cramped bathroom. She gave herself one short breath of absence in dusting the droplets off, and brought up Gibraltar on her communicator, going with the standard channel after a moment's thought. The situation counted as an emergency, but her mother had promised to actively monitor that one. If she could avoid adding further complications before the end of the hour, they'd all be better off.

Her call was answered at the first tone, and a holographic Genji took her place in the mirror above the sink.

"Captain Amari," he greeted.

"Genji." Another time, she'd ask him how he ended up on monitor duty when they had Athena and he preferred to avoid the central hubs of Gibraltar, but her gratitude would have to play second fiddle to urgency. "We've run into a complication."

"Of what nature?"

"McCree showed up and shot Saleh in the leg."

His head reared back. She wasn't good enough to guess at what expression that would match up to yet, but imagination filled the gap readily. Old friends crashing back to Overwatch was becoming a theme. "Do you require medical assistance?"

"He'll be fine." The muscles lining Fareeha's spine tensed, and she could hear her tone clipping. "Did Winston hear anything back from McCree when he sent out the recall?"

Genji didn't move, and he didn't repeat the question to Athena. "He declined to respond."

That had been her memory. Not a surprise. McCree had left before Overwatch first disbanded, and the only people who had responded to the recall were Tracer, Reinhardt, and Torbjörn. Everyone else had waltzed through the front door at their own convenience. Fareeha had technically done so uninvited.

She and Genji shared the moment of silence backing up both their sides of the world. She knew what she was inclined to do, and he probably did as well. Genji was good at predicting people, and he was developing a seventh sense for predicting her. The only question was how dangerous it would be. She knew the boy with the fantastic belt buckle, not the man accused of hijacking trains.

He still had the belt buckle.

Fareeha sighed. "Genji, when he left—"

"Fareeha, you've run into trouble?"

A stubborn sort that seemed not to have an interest in stopping.

Her mother's voice, joined swiftly by her mother, stepped into the monitor room. If the tails of her coat happened to catch the air dramatically as she marched in, well, Fareeha couldn't say it wasn't appropriate.

Genji was shoved to the side of the feed by the implacable presence that was Ana Amari, his open posture still directed at the camera, but cut in half by the tense look of disapproval and worry that had become the standard for Fareeha's interactions with her beloved mother. Any bother he felt at the sudden interruption was covered by his visor and years of meditation. Fareeha wasted a heartbeat on envy and collected herself, abandoning the sliver of ease that had tried to set in.

"We've made contact with McCree," she said. "He downed Saleh chasing after our prospective bounty. I called to check on his recall status."

Fareeha could see Ana's hands typing under her amused huff. Doubtless exploring Overwatch's history of what McCree was up to these days. It would probably be more extensive than an enormous amount of money followed by the enormous string of grievances provoking the number. Athena had kept up a surprisingly thorough record of what all former agents were up to, whether or not they wanted to bring their shared history into the present.

She glanced at Genji.

Ana shook her head and tutted. "That boy has built up quite the resume since I've been away." Her eye swiveled back to Fareeha. "How wounded is your man?"

"Imminently stable, but not up for a chase unless we use a medpack." Fareeha didn't want to admit the next part, but she didn't have much choice. "Competing with McCree isn't likely to end in our favor."

A spark of approval lit in Ana's face, and Fareeha's heart swelled. "Of course." Her chin found a place on her fist, and she observed her daughter in silent judgment. Neutrally for once. A commander inspecting her unit and considering how best to make use of them.

Fareeha had spent all of her adult life chasing after these moments.

Abruptly, Ana pulled away. "Bring him back with you, Fareeha," she said. "If he insists on being an outlaw, he might as well have company."

Permission granted, she passed out of the room as theatrically as she'd entered. Never mind how often she rolled her eyes at Jack marching the exact same path when they were all younger. The haze of the empty doorway gave way to Fareeha's reflection, both eyes wary and alert with the tattooed promise she'd taken up.

She ignored it and turned back to Genji. He had not stopped watching her, and made no move to turn off the feed. He had, however, slid his chair back to its exact position prior to Ana's entrance. There probably wasn't a pixel of difference. Fareeha, more than sympathetic to feeling like a breathing lamp around her mother, elected not to comment.

"He's her favorite," she told him conversationally.

"McCree?"

"Taught him to shoot and everything," Fareeha said. And didn't immediately charter a plane to go out and maim the man for living irresponsibly. "He always beat me at darts."

Saleh was quieting down. There was a good chance Tariq had been made. The bounty was still out on their initial target, but McCree had—according to his rap sheet—been doing this for much longer than the new Overwatch. He could nab the guy and be out of the city before the end of the day. Since he'd already shot a bystander, he would be looking for a fast, clean getaway.

She didn't have her suit. On the ground, she had a rough guess of where their skill levels fell, and it was not complimentary. She would need to follow him, avoid getting shot, wait to catch him off-guard, and continue to avoid getting shot until she could convince him to come back with her.

Their mission kit, regretfully, did not come with tranq darts.

"Our father favored Hanzo." Genji had stopped sitting up so rigidly straight. Certain parts of him refused to bend, but stress was clearly staying in her hemisphere. "He taught him everything he knew while letting me do whatever I pleased."

His visor glinted upwards. "I did still learn enough to beat McCree at darts."

"I," Fareeha said, "was twelve." The first time. Looking back, she'd spent a disproportionate amount of her time at Overwatch facilities getting trounced at barroom games. The career agents understandably had a lot of practice.

"So you'll have no interest in watching when I challenge him upon your return?"

Fareeha eyed Genji. "I didn't say that."

Genji nodded so respectfully that she had never been more sure she was being made fun of. Fareeha ran a tired, bloody, hand through her hair, shaking her head. And smiling. She hadn't realized that was possible so soon after exchanging words with her mother. Let alone in the middle of a mission to track down her felonious babysitter.

The question she'd started earlier came back to her. "Do you think he'll want to return?"

Genji's neck pulled back in the same motion it had when she first mentioned McCree. Surprise, maybe. With a dash of consideration from the extra horizontal tilt. He didn't speak for several moments. A long time, considering the circumstances.

"I believe," Genji said slowly, "he left to pursue his own view of justice. As it was becoming, Overwatch could not support him in his path." The chair he was sitting on eased forward. "He is not lost to our cause."

Fareeha's smile turned rueful. "I'm hearing a 'no.'"

"That is the standard for most recruitment missions."

It was the answer he kept receiving from his brother, he didn't say. She wasn't sure how pleased he would be that she knew that. Genji's participation in the new Overwatch did not stop him from striking out on his own at regular intervals. His privacy had been an illusion since joining them at Gibraltar, but it was one they all partook in. Respecting it was the least they could do for each other.

Fareeha took in her final deep breath before the plunge, holding it carefully before release. She couldn't hear any activity outside the bathroom anymore. That would change quickly when they heard their new mission parameters. She looked Genji in the visor. The washed-out blue of the hologram didn't do him any favors. She'd have to think about changing her color settings when she got back.

"Then we'll have to spur him to action ourselves."

His head tilted up again. A smile. Definitely a smile.

Fareeha caught her reflection's eye. That made two of them.

What she had learned fastest in the new Overwatch was that part of old friends coming back was giving older pettiness a jumpstart. Torbjörn and Reinhardt would never find themselves using the same hammer. Jack and chain of command were on speaking terms maybe once a month. Her mother was unparalleled and best unthought of on the score of her memories of every single one of their comrades.

Fareeha could leave the darts to Genji's capable hands for now.

In the meantime, she had a game of hide-and-seek to repay.


End file.
